


Jekyll and Hyde, or something like that

by gayforroxane



Series: blood and guns and guts [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood, Knives, M/M, Protective brothers, There's Murder, and mentions of rape (no graphic depiction) though it wasn't the two of them, dark!jarchie, like seriously guys, this is seriously fucked up i hope you love it, trigger warning - blood? murder? sexy times?, trigger warning - rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 06:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10156244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayforroxane/pseuds/gayforroxane
Summary: “What’s better than a gun?” He whispers, dragging his mouth to his jaw, his ear, and Jughead whines, tilting his head back, holding Archie in place. His mouth falls down his neck, and he bites once, snapping his jaws. Jughead chokes on a swear, and a sob, feeling the blood well up to the surface of his skin. He tugs on Archie’s hair, sharp, grinning at the broken sound he makes, pulling until his face is towards the ceiling and all Jughead can see is a mile-and-a-half of the tendons of his neck.Or, Charles Case of Greenhill (a tiny town up the coast) puts his hands, mouth, and dick where it doesn't belong, and Archie and Jughead take care of it.





	

“I’m gonna kill whoever did this to her, Archie, I’m going to kill him.”

It’s a vow, and a promise, and a vow again.

Archie nods, tapping out a rhythm across Jughead’s palm, their only point of contact. The light of his room is flooding, dark with the thunder clouds that have danced over Riverdale for weeks, like the town, and its weather, is tuned to Jughead’s channel.

The two friends are on opposite sides of his double bed. Jughead has his feet on the floor, only slightly turned towards him. Archie is curled up against the headboard, tap tap tap tapping on Jughead’s palm. The tick is the result of the figurative espresso flooding through his veins, flushed out by the anger that burns like bees and fire-ants, radiating from the spaces behind his heart.

He’s known her his entire life – since he met Jughead, a little boy with big eyes, and gangly, unending limbs, bony ribs. Jellybean was built just like him, the same _lack_ of skin on their bones, lack of everything except brains in their skulls, hearts in their hands. She doesn’t lack physically anymore – not the way her brother does – but he wishes she did, just for an instant. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if she was smaller, younger, bonier. Maybe if she didn’t have the face of a woman, and the lengthy, unending eyeliner of a confident teenager, maybe if her chest was full and her hips weren’t wide, it wouldn’t have happened to her.

He knows, deep down, that it doesn’t matter. That the scum of the _fucking Earth_ (as Jughead had, artfully, and loudly, called him earlier) would’ve still put his hands and his dick where they didn’t belong.

His blood burns as bright, as insistent, as sharp as Jughead’s.

“Not on your own.” He laces their fingers together.

Jughead squeezes his hand, a reflex, a habit that shouldn’t be instilled in their bodies yet, because it’s too soon. Archie pressed him up against a car, pressed him deep into the mattress (multiple times, in a several, creative varieties), only a week-and-a-half ago. It’s too soon to fall into the easiness of loving, and being friends, being something more-than-friends.

Jughead, honestly, tries not to think about it, and thinks about it _all the fucking time_.

“What? You’re gonna help me kill someone?” He colours his voice with as much sarcasm as possible, the two images of Archie (sweet, soft, kind, selfish, and young, and bright; hard, tainted, and protective, and bright) at war in his mind, the very definition of man versus himself.

Archie hums. He scrapes guitar callouses over Jughead’s palm.

“Archie…”

“She’s my sister, too, Jug.”

He snorts. “Incest is reserved solely for the Blossoms, Arch, and that’s –”

“She was my sister before you were my boyfriend, and if you’re going to kill him, I’m helping, the _fucking_ son of a _bitch_ deserves it.”

He’s gardening silence for a few moments, struck with the careful melody of someone changed, a person evolved. This conversation has turned, suddenly, from a threat to a plan-of-action. The smell of axe body spray, of sweat, of honey shampoo, and waffles in Archie’s room can’t be innocent with these words in the air, flooding the scent of teenaged boy. Jughead studies his profile against the dark of the walls of his room. Bumpy nose, a scar between his eyebrows, soft mouths, long neck; it’s a checklist of all things Archie, catalogued and analysed like his murder board.

“His name is Charles Case, he’s from a tiny town called Greenhill, up the coast.”

“Was he drunk?”

“It doesn’t _fucking matter_ –”

“Don’t start that shit with me, Jug, of course it doesn’t matter, I just wanted to know.”

A blush rises in his cheeks, and he thinks that his sister’s face was probably red, coated in a layer of tears. He burns, he aches, he bruises like a fucking peach, split open, _leaking_ , designed from rape and a hoard of angry wasps.

“He – _God_ – I’m gonna kill him.”

Archie hisses through his teeth, nails biting into his palms.

“You still have that gun?”

Jughead gives a tiny, sly smirk. “Of course not, Archie, didn’t you take Murder 101 Freshman year? Always dispose of the evidence.”

Rolling his eyes, and somehow charmed, Archie leans in, face twisted in a smirk, the light of his eyes cold, and cruel, but still lit from the inside, with the fire that burns at his heart. Jughead shivers.

“Then what should we use?” He asks, voice rasping across his tongue and lips.

Jughead smiles. “I’ve got something better.”

They’re standing in front of the lightning and thunder lit window, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, teeth bared. Jughead’s tongue comes out to lick across his bottom lip, and Archie’s eyes are dark, dark, darker. His hands are on Jughead’s neck, pulling him in, biting into his lips, sucking on his tongue, smirking when he swallows his sounds, moans when the other boy’s hands move to his hair, the back of his neck.

“What’s better than a gun?” He whispers, dragging his mouth to his jaw, his ear, and Jughead whines, tilting his head back, holding Archie in place. His mouth falls down his neck, and he bites once, snapping his jaws. Jughead chokes on a swear, and a sob, feeling the blood well up to the surface of his skin. He tugs on Archie’s hair, sharp, grinning at the broken sound he makes, pulling until his face is towards the ceiling and all Jughead can see is a mile-and-a-half of the tendons of his neck.

He closes his teeth, his mouth, over his jugular. He feels Archie swallow, and go still. Easing the pressure gently, gently, harder, _hard_ , returning the favour of the bruise. He presses his hips forward, grinding into Archie once, slow, and hot, made of liquid platinum, no gold in sight. Archie makes a tiny, keening noise that Jughead feels in his cock.

“A knife,” he murmurs against the straining tendon, voice molasses-in-the-cold thick, rough with spit, lips swollen.

He grins when Archie whines, coming against him.

 

 

They sit down across from him in a Starbucks, a story about a sociology project and aspiring entrepreneurs that makes Charles Case puff with pride. He rambles easily.

Archie forces down a coffee, forces on a smile.

Jughead excuses himself to the bathroom to throw chunks, the breakfast sandwich, the croissant, the overpriced and sweet coffee sloughing into the water of the toilet bowl.

When he comes back Archie’s face is green and red, his cheeks flushed, eyes pink with tears, forehead, chin, mouth green with sick. He excuses himself the moment Jughead sits down. He feels a slight roll of nausea at the possibility of the same toilet stall receiving the same brutal treatment in one day.

“Sorry,” he says, a smirk painting his face, “Something weird’s going around.”

 

 

With an egotistical man like Charles Case, conversation is not a problem.

It’s enough of a not-problem, in fact, that inviting him our for drinks is breath-takingly easy, and slipping something into those drinks is even easier.

They carry him between them, out of the dingy bar, laughing loudly and staggering for show. Just two friends helping another home.

Jughead can’t help the poetry that flits through his mind after that thought.

_at home, with the demons and devils, with the other rapists, the other thieves, down in Hell, where the fire never stops_

 

 

Charles Case wakes up in a hotel room in Rivergreen, seventeen miles North-West of Riverdale, his feet bound, a gag stuffed into his mouth.

His eyes go wide, tear-filled when he sees a dark-haired boy in a beanie, leaning up against a wall across from the bed, picking his nails with a hunting knife. He makes a tiny noise in his throat when he sees the other one, the one with red hair and a pretty mouth, laying on his side to his left and propped up on one elbow, watching him, holding a gun idly against his hip, flicking the safety on and off.

“The sheets here are nice,” The red-head says, flopping onto his back, resting the gun on his stomach, and arching like a bow to run his hands down the pillows above him. The one with the knife makes eye contact with Charles, holds his gaze. He smirks.

“The luxuries ninety-eight bucks a night can buy.”

On his left, the red-head snorts. The muscles in his stomach tense as he sits up. “Sounds like you’re buying a prostitute, Jug.”

“I’ve got you, don’t I? I don’t need another creature of the night.” His voice is light and spiced with cinnamon and cherries. It doesn’t fit in a dank room with a molding bedspread, and cheap yellow light. It doesn’t mesh with the terrified boy laying on the bed, who’s about to be put on trial for his crimes. He doesn’t know these people, doesn’t know what he’s done. Later, the dark-haired boy will find this incredibly, desperately, pathetically sad.

“Remember that shitty Next Generation episode with Q?” The redhead asks as Jug comes to stand between the v of his legs. With his back to him, Charles considers trying to move away, caterpillar his way across the floor because _fuck_ dignity, he’s about to be maimed by two crazy boyfriends with a murder kink. Then he meets the beanie-ridden one’s eyes, light and fletched with dark, and he keeps still.

“You mean the very first one that they throw back to—”

“—in the series finale, yeah. Doesn’t this remind you of that, a bit?”

Jug smiles, noses against his boyfriend’s (Charles doesn’t know what to call them. Bonnie and Clyde? Jekyll and Hyde? All he knows is one has a gun and the other has a knife and _fuck_ if either of those things come anywhere near him—) neck.

“Sure, babe, a bit. Except I’m much more fond of Captain Piccard than I am of this thing,” the words come casually, and Charles flinches.

He doesn’t know what he did to them to be reduced to ‘thing.’

He tries to remember if he got too handsy with the redhead at a party (he likes pretty boys with wide mouths), or kissed the dark-haired one when he shouldn’t have. Honestly, he can’t recall, and doesn’t this seem like overkill for a kiss or a grope?

“Do you know a woman named Jellybean Jones?” The dark-haired boy asks, sly, tempered, quiet. Charles names him ‘Hyde’, because this boy is small, and twisted. The other one can be Jekyll, because he seems reasonably more sane. They fade into and out of each other in a new way, a way he’s never seen any other couple do. He doesn’t understand.

It takes him a moment to realize that Hyde was talking to him.

He raises an eyebrow, tongues at the gag.

Jekyll rolls his eyes, and swipes the gun across his face in a moment. Skin-is-bursting pain buckles across his left cheekbone and jaw, and Charles blinks back tears, chokes down a whimper.

“Jellybean Jones, _yes_ or _no_.” It comes from behind gritted teeth, a freckled hand clenching a gun. Charles half-expects Hyde to try and calm him – to lay a pale hand on a shirt-sleeve clad shoulder, press his mouth to his neck – but realizes that the other is _encouraging_ it. They have their hands wound tight into each other’s hair or shirts, nails biting crescents into their skin. Charles slips his eyes shut, because these boys are _crazy_. They’re willing to push _into_ something like this, instead of away, and _god_ , he’s so, completely, royally _fucked._

He has a flash of a girl with pink hair, half-up in two buns, huge winged eyeliner, and a bright, dark red smile. Her mouth, her cunt, and grey-blue eyes washed out with tears. He has a flicker of Hyde’s eyes.

His gut curdles, and his blood goes gentle and cold.

The same moles, in constellations across their cheeks. The same dark brown hair at the roots, with the same wide, prettysoftpink mouth.

And Charles Case isn’t a dumb man. Now that he has the signs, he can recognize the face of two angry, livid, _seething_ brothers.

Oh _shit._

He nods his head slowly, heads fixed into fists.

Jekyll and Hyde both smirk, their eyes getting deep, and deep, and dark.

“I’m her big brother,” Hyde hisses, twisting Charles’ leg until he can reach the soft skin of the backside of his knee. He slits the blade into and out of the flesh, the knife bloody for three inches.

Charles screams beneath the gag.

“And I’m her—” Jekyll glances at his other half, skimming his eyes over a tank-top clad form, lean arms, wild hair under a knitted beanie, smiling “—brother-in-law?”

Through the haze of a _knife_ in his _knee_ , he watches Hyde blush, feels incredulity wash over him. They’re flirting.

While planning to kill him.

Un-fucking-believable.

“Sure, _honey_ ,” Hyde says, giving him a quirked little grin, twirling the blade between his fingers before plunging it, casually, into the flesh of Charles’ abdomen. He arches away, into the rusty springs, feeling the tears fall down his cheeks, the pain rip through his system. “We’ve been dating for a three-weeks, and you’re already going for marriage, hmm?”

The words are hazy through Charles’ fucked up, losing-blood-quickly looking glass.

“If the shoe fits, Juggie, which I guess makes you my fiancé, huh?”

Jughead’s cheeks flush red, and he leans across Charles to pull Archie in for a kiss, hard, wet, unending, moaning when his hands flood into the skin of his biceps, pinching.

Charles groans, rolling his eyes between tears.

There’s a smack (lips), and another, louder, harsher _slick_ of a knife cutting through the bone and cartilage and skin of his jugular. His lungs slip with blood, and the pain aches into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. His eyes drip tears, and drop close, slowly, biting into the gag, rolling back.

 

“Did you really propose to me – hmm, _fuck, Archie_ – during a torture slash murder?” Jughead gasps, arching back against the body at his back, against the hard line, insistent against his ass.

Archie bites harder into the back of his neck, feeling the blood well-up, slick the white of his teeth, and tightens his hand in Jughead’s hair. He goes limp, letting his head fall back onto Archie’s shoulder with a long, low moan, still pressing back.

“When else was I supposed to do it?” he asks, turning Jughead in his grasp, flush against the wall and his body, both groaning at their hips tight to one another, hard lines.

“At a significantly—” Archie slides his hands down his back, down over the curve of his ass, onto the muscle of his thighs, hitching him up against the wall. Jughead laughs against the curve of his neck, letting it evolve into a moan as Archie sucks marks down his neck. He feels it in is gut, in his cock. “—a significantly more romantic time, Archie, you – _ahh, more, yes_ – idiot.”

Archie chuckles darkly against his neck, squeezing his hands against the flesh of his boyfriend’s (fiancé’s) ass.

“Romantic, hmm?” He licks a long stripe from the hollow of his throat up his jugular. “Nothing brings a couple together like murder and mayhem, right, babe?”

“Don’t call me that.” Jughead snaps on a laugh. “And put me down.”

Archie puts him down immediately, stepping away to leave room between them. The high bridge of his freckled cheeks flushes red, and he ducks his head, scratches at the back of his neck.

“Sorry, Jug—”

Jughead grins, reaching out to reel Archie in slowly, turn them until he can press his boyfriend into the wall. “Don’t worry about it, Arch,” he says, letting his hands slide heavy down a bare chest, pausing to pinch at a nipple, smirking when his head falls back against the wall, swearing. His scritches his nails over his stomach, feels the muscles tense.

He falls to his knees as he unbuttons the belt buckle, and slips the zipper down.

**Author's Note:**

> again, please don't murder people, please don't rape people  
> obviously i dont condone this as a reasonable method of trying someone there is reason that both juries and judges exist  
> and the criminal justice system and all that jazz
> 
> anyways  
> so i got some interest on and the penny drops, which is now the official first part of this series of dark!jarchie, so this is what you've done to me  
> i now have weird, definitely gross, probably pervy fic saved on my laptop thanks for that guys
> 
> hope you liked it lemme know or hmu on blue-by-auster to chat on tumblr  
> mads


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